Following in the tradition of the infamous marauding filibusteros – including John Hawkins, Francis Drake, Henry Morgan and Laurens de Graaf – preceding them, waterbirds appear to have commandeered some of the fishing fleet in Campeche.
The cormorants and pelicans granted us safe passage along the Malecon, a pathway with ample lanes for bicyclists, runners and pedestrians skirting the bay for several miles.
Most importantly, Campeche is proving a safe harbor sheltering us from an over-abundance of political updates.
A century ago, a San Antonio businessman dressed in drag to parade around as the Duchess of Frijoles to lampoon Fiesta royalty. That Fiesta San Antonio tradition continues somewhat in the form of the rowdy and bawdy Cornyation – now 50 years old.
King Anchovy reigns over the colorful pageantry in the Empire Theatre. King Chris Hill arrived on stage crowned with a slice of lime and perched on his throne, “rocks” in a salt-rimmed margarita glass. As appropriate for someone who recently purchased El Mirador, Hill’s royal court was Especial Number 2. The ingredients pranced around separately before reclining on a platter to create a whole enchilada dinner. The only complaint with his court was the giant, protruding, glitter-covered jala-penis of one of King Anchovy’s attendants continually blocked camera shots, resulting in extreme camera angles (although I often shoot that way).
No current event, politician or celebrity is too sacred to escape being targeted by the elaborate skits, amplified by commentary from emcees Rick Frederick and Elaine Wolff. This year included the ride-sharing versus taxi battles, with ride-sharing representatives wearing chestlights and taxis stripping down to reveal their checkered undies. The conflict was lorded over by the Duchess of Bumbling Bribes and Bumming Rides.
The Duchess of “I Hunt. It’s Legal. Get Over It, HUNTIES!,” represented “the positively true adventures of the selfie-taking, varmint-wasting Texas cheerleader.” Skits captured the tumultuous transition of Bruce Jenner and the ample hindquarters of Kim Kardashian. Along with Ricky and Lucy, the Castro brothers of Cuba appeared, although, on their flipsides, they assumed the roles of the Castro brothers from San Antonio.
At one point in its history, Cornyation was performed in the Arneson River Theatre as part of the San Antonio Conservation’s Society NIOSA. Not sure what transgressions caused the event to be banished from the NIOSA kingdom, but the 50th anniversary edition certainly wouldn’t have passed the society’s rating system without yards upon yards of additional costuming.*
The costuming is elaborate, although, by the end of numerous skits, much of it is barely there. You find yourself praying for no wardrobe malfunctions, as you already are viewing more than you want. Everything is so fast-paced, though, you generally only get quick glimpses. But still photos seem to focus and freeze on lots of butts, without the benefit of the accompanying music and moves, bringing back memories of being on the front row during a showing of John Waters’ Pink Flamingos as Divine lowered “her” bottom towards me.
Director Ray Chavez has been staging the choreographed chaos of Cornyations since 1982. He lost one of his major collaborators this past year with the death of Robert Rehm, so the final skit honored him in a fittingly wild fashion. Robert definitely lived his life as a “the-show-must-go-on” kind of guy. I briefly was able to make his acquaintance and interview him when working on a December 2012 feature on Jumpstart for ARTS on KLRN-TV.
Since becoming a nonprofit organization, Cornyation has contributed close to $2 million to charities and to underwrite scholarships for theater students. It continues through Friday night.
Hey, Ben and Tim, thanks so much for including us!
*Although many of the defenders of the Alamo were exposed to San Antonio’s wild fandangos, I was relieved to see no cormorants in attendance. Think they’d be better prepared for haunting NIOSA.
No matter what, it’s the San Antonio Book Festival’s fault. Writing about some of the authors scheduled to appear there sent me back to a post from long ago about Jake Silverstein’s book, Nothing Happened and Then It Did, which had sent me delving back into The Devil’s Dictionary. Hence the omen reference. Add to that overstimulation from listening to five full sessions of authors talking followed by the Literary Death Match.
National Park Service photo of red-tailed hawk
This past Thursday morning, the Mister and I headed southward for our morning walk. A hawk swooped onto a tree not 15 feet in front of us. It was a newly planted tree on the Eagleland stretch of the San Antonio River, the name of which comes not from sightings of eagles but from the Brackenridge High School’s mascot.
The branches of this 12-foot tree were not big enough to successfully support a hold-onto-your-chihuahua-size hawk; so, before we could even zip out and focus the smartphone, he flew off. While we were fiddling like dummies with the smartphone, the hawk caught something white now dangling helplessly from the hawk’s claws.
I wasn’t thinking omen yet. But a mile or so later on the Mission Reach by Lone Star, we saw another hawk swooping through the sky. We were impressed by a two-hawk day because we rarely even spy one.
But that afternoon, there was a third flying across 281 right in front of me as I headed to a meeting.
Three hawks. Now that seemed ominous to me.
Some people view hawks as messengers. Messengers bearing warnings, not usually glad tidings. I was afraid to even begin to surf the internet to find out what it would mean if three were trying to deliver news to me. I elected to prefer the theory that the hawks just happened to live nearby; it was meal time; and I was passing through their grocery store.
The next afternoon was warm. We had the doors on the second floor wide open. I kept hearing noises, though home alone.
Bravely going back up the stairs to the third floor, I found the source. A sparrow clinging to the shade on the south bank of windows.
I’m thinking omens again. Some people believe a bird flying into your house is a sign of death. I prefer the belief it means a loved one is trying to communicate with you from the grave. That seems more comforting.
Unfortunately, the windows on the third floor do not open. I was pondering how I was going to convince the sparrow to go back down a floor to the open doors when the sparrow spied this:
The bank of windows on the north side. Well, the sparrow went for it as fast as his wings could flap through the length of the house.
Smack. Thud.
I’m thinking serious omen.
A bird breaks his neck flying into your window, particularly while inside the house? Not a good sign. A harbinger of death.
But a break came. A major stroke of good luck. When the sparrow hit the glass, he fell smack into the middle of the trashcan beside my desk onto a soft bed of kleenix, ever-present during this season of pollen.
I was able to cover him with a jacket and cart him out to the back porch. Upon my removal of the cover, he sat there stunned for quite a while. He had been tricked by those very same green leaves once, and, no fool, he wasn’t going to race toward them again. After about 30 minutes, he trusted his surroundings and fluttered home.
Surely that trumped all prior gloomy warnings.
I fretted a bit all weekend but finally decided no news was good news.
Our daughter solved it all inadvertently with an email with this photo attached. Aha, the sparrow must have been trying to tell me there had been a storm in Austin, and a branch blew into their house and smashed a window. Phew.
And then, on the phone later, she told me about the impending death. The Mister’s Infinity that had passed her way was in the process of passing away.
The Mister was sad. He loved that car.
But I was jubilant. Those hawks were only trying to tell me the Infinity was dying. I can handle that. I never even learned to find it in a parking lot; one silver sedan looks just like all the others to me.
I’m not paying attention to messages from birds again though; no matter what that pair of coots on the Mission Reach seems to be trying to say. The foreboding row of dark cormorants perched on the dam won’t scare me.
And those herons and egrets? They and all the other birds who didn’t use to flourish here are only here because our environment is improving everyday as the San Antonio River Improvements Project matures.
The Mister and I just happen to walk right across their dining room table, often interrupting a crawfish feast, as we head southward.
And, that sparrow spared by the bed of kleenix absolutely has to be a sign of good luck.
April 29, 2014, Update: The flock of wild parrots that are spied around Southtown periodically just spent about 10 minutes fluttering around a cypress tree outside my window. Spectacular. Wish they would stay, but I think even that temporal a siting is a good sign.
Postcards from Barton Springs 